


Ashes

by peddlergirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Comforting Sam Winchester, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Rescue, Sam to the Rescue, Snarky Dean Winchester, Survivor - Freeform, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peddlergirl/pseuds/peddlergirl
Summary: It was all over. Done. My husband was gone. My home was gone. My future was gone. I had nothing left. So I sat in the front yard and watched my life burn to ashes. And that was how Sam found me.





	1. Fire

                He found me sitting out the yard, watching my home be consumed by the flames. Photos, memories, all the pieces of my past burned fiercely against the dark night sky. The stars and moon were clouded over, leaving flickering firelight the only thing casting its eerie illumination on the surrounding farm land. The fire department and first responders had long since left. Their condolences were hollow, and the few offers of a ride or shelter had been easily dismissed with lies of nearby family on their way to be with me. Our home was far out in the country, the billowing scent of burning plastic and asphalt roofing the only reason a neighbor had notified emergency services. I had pulled in the driveway only to find that the stench was coming from _my_ home, that the orange flicker against the sky was from _my_ house burning to the ground. It was all over. Done. My husband was gone. My home was gone. My future was gone. I had nothing left. So I sat in the front yard and watched my life burn to ashes. 

                Soft sounds of crickets accompanied the heavy crunch of his footsteps up our gravel drive. I listened to his steady progress up our lane for several long moments until the wisp of Sam’s comforting scent had pressed past the overwhelming smell of destruction. His broad hand dropped to my shoulder, its heavy weight intending to give comfort. I continued to stare blindly at the flames.

                A section of our home collapsed, sending a shower of sparks heavenward. “He’s gone,” I murmured.

                “I know.” Sam squeezed my shoulder. “Steve called me.”

                The fire chief had been the one to notify me, as well. “He’s just … gone.”

                Without a word, Sam gathered me beneath the elbows and pulled me up into an embrace. His arms wrapped almost double around me as he pressed me into his chest. I stood numbly, my instinctive withdrawal from physical contact oddly absent. “You’re staying with us tonight. Dean will make breakfast in the morning and you can get cleaned up and get some sleep.”

                “Dean doesn’t like me,” I said dully.

                “Trust me, he’ll be fine,” Sam said softly. He stepped back, sweeping me up into his arms cautiously as if afraid I would break.

                Unfortunately, he was far too late for that.

 

                The grinding clank of the bunker door made me jump.

                “Beck, sit down. I’ll bring you something to eat.” Sam gently pressed me into a chair at a broad dark stained table in a large bookshelf lined room with vaulted ceilings. Dean appeared with a plate in his hand, a slice of pie with a neat curl of cool whip artfully displayed.

                “Becca.” Dean nodded to me uncertainly.

                “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long.” My tone was flat. “I’ll find somewhere to go tomorrow—”

                “Like hell you will.” Sam corrected without heat. “She’s staying as long as she needs to, Dean.”

                Dean put the pie down in front of me, holding up his hands. “No argument from me. There’s plenty of room here but be warned that Sammy takes all the hot water in the morning.” His attempt at levity fell flat and I just blinked at him.

                “You don’t have to play nice, Dean.” I sighed tiredly. “You’ve always hated me, no reason to pretend now.”

                He made a face, caught off guard. “I find you irritating,” he shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

                “Dean—” Sam warned.

                “You're always welcome here, Becca. Especially with Jack gone—” He frowned, ignoring the fierce glare from his brother. “We can look out for you. Help you figure things out.”

                They saw me as the grieving widow and their pity was thick in the air. “I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. I promise, I’ll find somewhere else to stay tomorrow—”

                Sam crossed his arms over his broad chest. “We’ve been friends a long time, Becca, I know you pretty well. Trust me, you’re _not_ fine.”

                The calm that had gotten me through the evening suddenly fractured, that one statement enough to strip me of my control. I clenched my hands, overwhelmed by the flood of anger that filled my body. “I _am_ fine. He’s gone, Sam—he’s finally gone and all I feel is relieved.” I let out a sharp laugh. “How’s that for knowing me pretty well? My husband is dead and I’m nothing but _relieved_.” The words hung in the air and I slammed the lid back down on my emotions. Not the time. Not the place. I had survived this long without showing weakness and I was not about to start now. I was _free_. Jack was gone and I would never have to walk into that fucking nightmare of a house again. I hadn’t set the fire but I envied whoever had. How satisfying it must have been to set match to that heap. To watch those first slow licks of flame begin to grow. I had imagined walking out of my life enough times that there was no great pain in its loss. But Jack – I never could’ve imagined how freeing his death would be.

                But the freedom suddenly made me realize how small my world had gotten, how limited my contact with the outside world had been. The grocery run I had been on when I got the call was had been the first time in weeks that I had left that house. I leaned forward and grabbed the plate of pie, digging into it with gusto. I was going to enjoy things again, damn it. I was going to enjoy _everything_. “This pie is delicious, Dean. Is it homemade?”

                Silently, Sam pulled the chair out across from me, his gaze suddenly cautious. “Becca, I think—”

                I waved the fork at him warningly. “We’re not doing this, Sam. You’re not going to psychoanalyze me and I am not going to talk about this. He’s gone.” I sucked in a deep breath, relishing the wash of oxygen in my lungs. “He’s gone and now I can move forward. Dean, bring your brother some pie. Maybe it will get that sour look off his face.” I flashed Sam a saccharine grin and dug back in with relish, fighting to keep hold of the burst of bravado that filled me.

                He would not take this away from me. No one would take anything from me again.

 


	2. How Long

                  It was two in the morning and I was restless. I had showered but the stench of smoke still clung to my skin. I was quiet, making sure no noise would wake the boys. The last thing I needed was more of their cautious stares, or to try and make my way through the minefield of questions that my moment of weakness had caused. Damn it. Five years. Five years of marriage and I had never once let anyone think I was anything but happy. Tired, yes. Often sick, sure. But stress induced panic attacks? Never let anyone know about those. Frantic nightmares that got me thrown out of our room so Jack could get some sleep? Never told a soul. A single moment of weakness may have destroyed my entire friendship with Sam. I had to get out of here, I wasn’t going to take up any more space or intrude on his refuge any longer than I absolutely had to. I had to leave before he pressed for answers, pushed for details I did not want to give. He could never know. I would never let him know how badly I had messed up, what a farce my entire marriage had been.

                “Beck.” Sam’s soft murmur made the hair raise on my neck and I quickly shuffled out of his way in the narrow hallway.

                “Sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

                Without a word he ushered me into the kitchen, the gleaming countertops and chrome topped island showing no signs of mess. My kitchen had always been a wreck. Sam ran his hands through his hair, his t-shirt riding up and his cotton pajama pants slung low on his hips, revealing a small bit of his toned stomach. “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”

                I pulled my gaze from that intimate glimpse of skin. “No, just couldn’t sleep.”

                He frowned, his hazel eyes darkening. “You look like you haven’t slept in a while.”

                Damn it. He had to quit looking at me so closely. I traced circles on the slick countertop. “I sleep enough.”

                That drew a soft sigh from him. “How many hours is enough?”

                “I don’t need you to worry about me, Sam.”

                His expression tightened. “No, I think I should have worried about you a great deal more. How long were things bad with Jack?”

                I flinched at the direct question. “They weren’t bad.”

                He rumbled deep in his chest. “Talk to me, Beck. You’ve been there for me, every time I needed you. Let me be here for you.”

                “I don’t need anything from you, Sam. Nothing is wrong.”

                “Yeah, because he’s dead and can’t hurt you anymore. What was happening, Becca?” His voice was harsh, his eyes even more so. “How long have I missed the signs? How many times did you dodge my calls because you knew you couldn’t hide it and I would be over there in a heartbeat to beat his ass? _How long_ , _Becca_?” His tone was flat, but I could read between the lines.

                I shrank inward, trying to draw away from his anger but unwilling to risk making a run for it. Running had never meant rescue. Running only meant delaying the inevitable and compounding the anger tenfold. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t like that, Sam.”               

               His hands slapped down roughly on the counter, the loud sound freezing me in place.. Angry Sam was terrifying. “Damn it, Becca! That asshole was abusing you and you never came to me! I could’ve protected you, I would’ve made his life hell--!”

               I gripped the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles turned white and I had to force the words out. “It wasn’t abuse.”

                “The hell it wasn't!” Sam spun away from me, fists clenching and muscles jumping in his back. “Help me understand. You’ve changed, Beck, more than I ever realized and I don’t know how I could’ve been so blind. All the signs are there. The weight loss, the lack of interest in all the things you used to love. You hate to be touched. You letting me pick you up at the fire was the first time you’ve let me touch you in _years._ Did that bastard hit you? Did he _force_ you? Fuck, you were married to that son of a bitch for _five_ _years_. What did he do to you, Becca? What happened?”

                I stared at him, watching the muscle tic in his jaw. My calm, sweet Sam was furious. His anger had a depth that instinctively I recognized. _That_ look I knew. _That_ expression I was well familiar with but I never would’ve thought my Sam could be capable of it. Jack was right. I brought the anger out in people. I caused levels of frustration that were unmatched in normal people. Whatever was wrong with me had already spilled over to my very dearest friend and we hadn’t been together for more than a handful of hours. I may have been freed from one cage of fear but had leapt straight into another. I would never be free of this feeling, this stifling panic that crept and clawed in my throat. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

                “What?” He reeled back around to stare at me. “Of course I’m upset! That bastard—” He visibly cut off the rest of his words and sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. Some of the red faded from his face and he noticeably tamped down his raging emotions. “I’m sorry, Beck. I’m not trying to scare you. Fuck. Look at you. You’re shaking. Damn it. I’m sorry.” Short staccatos of words burst out of him as he started to pace, shrinking the breathable air in the room down to nothing. He stopped directly in front of me and I froze. He rested his hands on the counter, pressing his knuckles into the chrome. “I can’t do this right now. I’m only making things worse. I need to go calm down. But we _will_ be having this conversation. I want some answers.” His hazel eyes were penetrating and I waited for some sense of direction from him. But he just turned on his heel and stalked out the door.


	3. May I

                The moments were creeping by and still he didn’t return. I hadn’t heard the front door so I could only assume that he was roaming the vast hallways of the bunker. I stayed in the same spot in the kitchen, just in case. He said he was coming for me, which meant that he wanted to be able to find me easily. Trying to hide or trying to get more comfortable in another room was pointless. Might as well stay where he knew to find me and get it over with.

                He finally reappeared, coming around the corner distractedly only to come to a halt, staring at me in surprise. “What are you still doing in here, Beck?”

                “You … you said you wanted to talk to me. After you calmed down.” I shifted on my feet, ignoring the pinpricks in my calves.

                His gaze narrowed. “That was two hours ago, Becca.”                

                I swallowed hard, picking up on the fact that I had made the wrong choice. “Was it?”

               “Becca…I need you to go to your room.” He bit out, anger creeping back into his eyes. “Go to your room and sit on the bed. _Right now_.”

                I stumbled away from where I had been standing stock still for two hours, numbly trying to make my way to the door without coming anywhere near him.

                With a muttered oath, Sam came at me and I reacted before I could blink. I lurched away from him, taking off down the hall without a word. Screaming wouldn't accomplish anything other than making my throat sore the next day. I forgot about the noise, forgot to keep my steps quiet and as I scrambled around the last corner Dean’s door popped open. He stood there, his hair tousled and green eyes blinking blearily as I slammed to a stop, breath heaving out of my chest. I waited for his reaction, for the roar of aggravation that I knew was coming.

                But he just tilted his head at me in confusion. “Becca? You all right?”

                Sam came down the hallway behind me at a steady pace, his measured breaths warning me that he was nearing the edge of his patience.

                Dean straightened with one look at his brother’s expression. “Sam, what happened?”

                “Go back to bed, Dean. I’ll handle this.”

                Dean flicked a glance at me where I still hadn’t dared to move. “Sam, you’re scaring her.”

                “She just stood in the kitchen for two hours because she thought I told her not to move. Get out of my fucking way, Dean.”

               Dean’s eyes widened and he stared at me in concern. “Just … go easy on her, Sam. She’s had a hell of a day.”

                “I’m not going to hurt her,” Sam snarled and Dean held up his hands in defense.

                “I know that. But does she?”

                Sam let out a growl that had me scrambling into my bedroom without a backward glance. _Go to your room, sit down on the bed. Go to your room, sit down on the bed. Go to your room—_

                I threw myself on the comforter before he could set foot in the room, pushing myself up against the pillows to face the doorway, bracing for whatever would happen next. I took a quick inventory of the room for potential threats, items that could be thrown or used against me. Lamp, chair, a few books on the bedside table—

                “Becca.” Sam’s tone was low, measured. It hadn’t climbed in decibel yet but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to.

                My gaze snapped to his and I froze, avoiding any sudden movements that might push him over the edge. His broad frame filled the doorway, and he had to duck a bit to fit through. He didn’t look angry anymore, he looked resigned but I wasn’t going to test him. “I’m sorry, Sam.” I whispered, hoping it was what he wanted to hear. “I thought you wanted—”

                “I never want you to hurt yourself. Not ever, Becca. Do you understand me?”

                I nodded vigorously, glad he had given me such a clear indication of the answer he wanted.

                “I am going to sit on the bed, right here by your feet. No, don’t move. Stay right there.” He slowly lowered himself to the comforter and I watched carefully, waiting for the moment that this seemingly innocuous conversation flipped to a conflict. “Becca, I want to ask you a question and I need you to answer me truthfully. Okay?”

                I nodded slowly, knowing this could be the moment.

                “May I touch your feet?”

                I pulled back and squinted at him. “What?”

                “Would you be comfortable with me touching your feet?” He repeated patiently.

                My brain spun, trying to find his angle.

                “They have to be hurting after standing so long without moving. Because you didn’t move at all, did you, Beck?” There was the resignation again.

                I searched his eyes, watching for hidden signs of aggravation. He was still tense as a bowstring but he seemed calm, at least somewhat clearheaded now. But I knew the calm could be far worse than the roar. But this was _Sam_ , I rationalized with myself. It was not Jack. Sam had never threatened me in any way. But I also had never made him angry before today, so I didn’t really have a good baseline. Maybe I could push just a little, figure out where the boundaries were with him. “Why?”

                “I want to give you a foot rub. You could use one and it would help calm me down.”

                I squinted at him, confused. “Why would that help _you_ calm down?”

                Sam sighed, jaw tight. “Because touching you would make me feel a hell of a lot better, in whatever way you’ll let me. We don’t have to talk about anything, Beck, but you desperately need to be touched. I remember how you were when I first met you. You’re a hugger. Every time you saw me you’d give me the biggest hug and you told me I gave the best hugs back because I made you feel dainty.” He flashed me a grief filled smile. “You probably didn’t even realize it but you always touched me in passing. Your fingers on my shoulder, your hand on my elbow … anytime you were close enough you’d reach out to me. We’ve been friends a long time, Beck, and I’m going to be honest with you – I craved those touches. I needed them like I needed air. Those touches drew me to you like nothing else and I never really understood it until tonight when I realized that that part of you is gone. I look at you right now, Becca Wilson, and I can see it in your eyes, the fractures inside you. I know I’m too late. I should’ve seen those fractures five years ago. I should’ve seen what he was doing to you. I’m sorry, Beck. I’m so sorry that I didn’t.”

                Emotion clogged my throat. How? How could he see the parts of me that no one else knew existed? I had always reached out to everyone around me, physically. I had always found touching others comforting. Small touches, hands held in prayer over dinner, knees touching when side by side on a couch, bumping shoulders when passing in the hallway. Small touches that grounded me. I existed in this world alongside millions of others, and I could reach out and touch the ones within my sphere. My touch could also communicate my emotions when words just wouldn’t do. Hugs of sympathy, a hand squeeze of excitement, leaning into someone to share some of my strength. Touch communicated so very much.

                And I had learned to hate it. To fear it. To loathe it with every fiber of my being. I hated when others were within my personal space, when someone drew too close without my consent. I feared unexpected touches, horrified if hands grabbed at my body without my assent. Every inch of me was hyper aware of Sam’s closeness, of his over large presence within my personal space. My skin had been crawling since the moment he sat down, warning me that we were on a bed, alone, in a vast and empty building and that Dean would turn a deaf ear to whatever Sam chose to do with me. I knew it wasn’t that Dean disregarded my safety, but more that he trusted Sam without hesitation. If Sam made a decision, Dean would back it up one hundred percent. My feelings on the matter were irrelevant.

                But… Sam.

                Sam had always been kind, always been gentle despite his size. He was still angry with me, I knew, but appeared calm at the moment. He was asking … permission. Asking for my consent to allow his touch. He wasn’t even asking for much, or asking for a high level of trust. He was offering to rub my feet. Offering to _give_ me something with touch, not to take away. I didn’t trust it, didn’t trust the desperation that rose within me at the hint of comfort. I had pushed everyone away for so long, desperate to make sure they couldn’t see what a failure I was, all the different ways that I had failed my husband. We had been happy, once. Early on in our dating relationship there had been laughter and fun. But I had ruined things. I had drained the life from him and he had resented me for it. But he was gone now. The relentless band of pressure on my chest slowly eased with the reminder. Jack was gone. He was not coming back. And Sam—

                Sam was asking permission.

                Slowly, second guessing my decision even as I made it, I stretched out one leg until my toes brushed his knuckles. He went impossibly still and locked eyes with me. I nudged him softly and very slowly his hand turned and gently grasped my foot. He brought his other hand up and cradled my ankle, bracing it to take all the strain off my calf. Slowly, cautiously he rubbed his long fingers over the top of my foot, tracing my veins with intense concentration. Slowly he began adding gentle pressure to the arch and gradually working out the aching muscles. The slow kneading steadily released the tension in my body until I could feel even my back beginning to relax. I watched him switch feet, anxiously waiting for when he got tired or bored, or fed up with such a simple thing. But he never did. His concentration never wavered and his movements eventually smoothed out into long dragging strokes from my ankle to my toes. Over and over the repetitive motions lulled and relaxed me until I quietly fell asleep without a struggle.


	4. Breakfast

       I woke up sweating and trying to throw off the heavy comforter. It grunted and pressed closer, jolting me into full awareness. I scrambled to orient myself. I was in the bunker and Sam—I lifted my head and found myself laying crosswise at the foot of the bed, tucked into Sam’s chest. He had clearly fallen asleep while rubbing my feet. My toes curled at the reminder of his languid strokes and I eased out from beneath his arm. I had gone from a 90-degree angle to him to tucked within the wide reach of his arms. He was exactly where I had left him, which meant that I must’ve sought him out in my sleep. He murmured a drowsy protest as I separated myself and silently got to my feet. Once standing though, I froze, unsure what to do. What if Dean wasn’t up yet? Would I wake him up if I left my room? Or what if he _was_ already up? Would I interrupt his breakfast? I was leaving today but there was no reason I had to piss him off any more than necessary. But I couldn’t crawl back into bed, the risk was too high that I would end back up in Sam’s arms. Our friendship was already on tenuous footing, I couldn’t risk letting my guard down any further. But surely I couldn’t sit here and watch him sleep—

           “Beck? You up already?” Sam lifted his tousled head from the bed.

           “I—Go back to sleep, Sam. You’re fine, I just – need the restroom.” A dull blush filled my face and I moved steadily toward the doorway, now set on a course of action. Hopefully Dean wouldn’t be too angry first thing in the morning--

           Sam stretched and his neck popped loudly, the abrupt sound stopping me in my tracks. I watched him warily, not sure if he was displeased with my decision. “Becca, it’s only six. You didn’t fall asleep until almost five.” Concern weighed heavily in his tone and inwardly I cringed.

           “I’m not tired, Sam.”

           “You only slept for an hour, Becca. Come back to bed.” The command in his voice sent an unwilling curl of heat down my spine. Damn those Winchester genes. The pair of them were all brooding good looks and confidence. Jack certainly hadn’t appreciated Sam’s charismatic charm and had told me repeatedly that he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that we were having an affair. But the accusations had always been followed up by his shrugging off the idea because he didn’t think that even Sam would be saint enough to put up with me.

           “Becca. You need more sleep. Please. Come back to bed.” The plea thrown in didn’t make it any less of a demand, but I held tight to my position on the floor.

           “I’m really not tired. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I tried.” I attempted a smile. “I have a big day ahead, I want to get things rolling.”

           Sam pushed himself up upright, his determined gaze eye-level with me despite the fact he was sitting. “Take an easy day, Becca. You went through a lot yesterday--”

           “I’m not staying here, Sam.” Where I found the strength to lift my chin in challenge to him I had no idea.

           “Dean really doesn't mind—”

           “Please, I don’t want to argue.” I tucked my hands into the sleeves of the oversized shirt Sam let me borrow. “How about I make breakfast? What’s your favorite?”

           He glowered at me, displeased with my offer. “You don’t need to be cooking me breakfast, Becca.”

           I smiled at him quickly. “I owe you a lot for letting me stay here last night.”

           With a rumble, Sam got to his feet and I instinctively took a few steps back to give him more room. Lord, he was tall. Sam’s brows lowered. “You don’t owe me anything. And there’s no way in hell that I am going to let you spend the whole day trying to find an apartment, or settle for a skeevy hotel, and I know for a fact that you don’t have any family left, Beck, so don't even try and lie to me. You’re crashing here and that’s it. I don’t want to argue either, so … don’t argue with me.” With a sigh at my expression, he ran his hands through his disheveled hair, pushing it out of his face. “Let’s see what we can rustle up for breakfast. And while I appreciate your offer, you’re a guest here. Just take it easy.”

           I frowned, unsure what that meant.

           Sam sighed. “Let’s just see what we can find.” He led the way out of the bedroom and I followed him silently.

           Dean was already sitting at the wooden table butted up against the cream tiled walls, a spoon in one fist and a half devoured bowl of cereal in front of him. He looked up at us, taking in the fact that we both were walking out of my room disheveled. He raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Found a way to handle the problem, eh?”

           Sam grunted. “Shut up, Dean.”

           He shrugged negligently. “What? So her husband died yesterday. She said no love lost, so no love lost. Comfort is a beautiful thing. Way to move in for the kill, though, Sammy. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have it in you.”

           A ruddy blush crept up my cheeks and I folded my arms across my middle, rubbing at my sleeves nervously. “We didn’t—it’s not—”

           Dean just winked at me. “Sam will take care of you right. Don’t believe a word of what his ex-girlfriend’s say.”

           Geez. How many were there?

           “Shut the hell up, Dean.” Sam snapped. “Have some respect.”

            Dean just rolled his eyes and went back to his cereal. “That’s what your girlfriends’ said,” he muttered with a smirk.

            Completely ignoring him, Sam went to the fridge and pulled out the milk and the orange juice. “What are you hungry for, Becca?”

            I lifted a shoulder. “…Orange juice?”

            Sam lifted an eyebrow doubtfully and scanned me from head to toe. “What else?”

            “Juice is plenty, Sam. I’m not really that hungry.”

            “Becca.” Damn him and that commanding tone. “If you don’t answer me then I’m making you a three course breakfast and won’t let you leave the room until you’ve eaten it all.”

            My stomach rolled at the thought of that much food. “Orange juice and some toast would be perfect.”

            Muttering under his breath, Sam fussed around the kitchen as he made my breakfast and his own. Silence finally fell and I slowly made my way to the seat across from Dean, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. Sam cast a warning glance at his brother but stayed at the stove as he scrambled some eggs.

            “So.” Dean tipped his chin at me, brows lifted. “Sam convinced you to stay.” It wasn’t a question, really. More of an assessment.

            I nodded stiffly. “We aren’t sleeping together, though. Just so we’re clear.”

            Dean tilted his head. “Sam can be very persuasive.”

            “Geez, Dean, would you shut up?” Sam muttered from the stove.

            I swallowed hard, casting a glance at him. “Trust me, I’ve been married for five years.” I let my mouth lift ruefully. “Sharing the bed is not on my short list of things to do any time soon.”

            Sam clicked off the burner and gathered up his plate. Instead of sitting at the table with us, he simply turned his back to the counter and dug in. His expressive hazel eyes warned me that he was about to start a conversation I wanted no part of. “So tell me about Jack.”


	5. What Would Jack Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becca is refusing to talk about her past but Dean is able to read between the lines. Sam reaches the limits of his calm.

     I froze. Geez, he really didn’t pull any punches, did he?

     Dean snorted, throwing me a long suffering look of solidarity. “Sam’s a morning person. Doesn’t have the decency to let other people wake up before demanding answers.”

     Sam didn’t respond to Dean’s attempt at levity, just watched me patiently.

     I pushed my own plate away, the few bites of toast that I had managed to eat suddenly souring in my stomach. “What is there to tell? You knew Jack. You were friends with him too.”

     “Clearly not as well as I thought. I only knew him because the two of you were together. And after you got married I rarely saw you, let alone spent time with you both.”

     “You travel all the time, Sam, us not seeing each other was hardly all my fault.” I tried to push down my growing anxiety as Sam continued his steady regard.

     “I wasn’t blaming you, Becca. I just meant there was obviously a lot that I missed.”

     “Nope, you didn’t miss anything.” My grip on my glass tightened. “Jack was just your average guy and we had a normal life together.”

     Sam grunted. “It’s too late for that lie to pass, Beck. Yesterday you said--”

     “Look, I spoke out of turn.” I snapped, rapidly reached the end of my calm. “My fucking house burned down and my husband had just died, Sam. Anything I said yesterday was in the heat of the moment, all right? We were fine. Our marriage was fine. Great, even. We had five blissful years together and I’ll miss him desperately.” I slammed my glass down hard enough on the table that orange juice spilled out and rebelliously I ignored the mess, getting to my feet. “I appreciate the hospitality of you both, but I really need a ride back to my place to get my car. I need to get things straightened out with the insurance company and fire department so I can get settled as soon as possible. Hell, I need to go shopping just for pajamas to wear tonight. There’s a lot I need to get done today.” I started for the doorway, the heat under my collar building until I felt like my skin was going to burst into flame. Damn him. Damn them both. I just wanted quiet. Peacefulness. A place for a fresh start. I didn’t want to talk about all this shit.

     “ _Becca_.” The snap of that single word cracked across the abrupt silence of the room and I froze in the doorway, the angry heat beneath my skin instantly turning to ice. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck— I had lost my temper. I knew fucking better than to _ever_ lose my temper. “Look at me, Becca.”

     I slowly turned around in the doorway, fear skittering over my nerves and keeping my gaze pinned to the ugly kitchen floor tiles. My icy fingers twitched nervously at my sides, distantly aware of Dean silently getting up and putting his dishes in the sink before leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, a mirror image of Sam’s posture.

     “Look at me, Becca. _Look at me._ ” Sam’s demand jolted me into motion, my panicked gaze jumping to his. Fear grabbed me by the throat and terror started a tremor that raced over me from head to toe. Every shred of conviction and control that I had scraped together in the past twenty-four hours vanished like a puff of smoke. Every thought centered on Sam and awaiting the explosion I knew was coming. Sam watched me carefully as he straightened up, looming even taller. “We talked about this last night, Becca. I’m trying to help, I’m trying to understand. I’m not going to let you do something that’s going to hurt you. You need to talk about what happened. Keeping it bottled up is hurting you right now.” Sam declared, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

     My gaze jumped to Dean in the background, hating that he was there, that he was about to see whatever Sam was going to do to me. Because I _had_ lost my temper. I had yelled and even slammed _his_ glass full of orange juice from _his_ kitchen on the table in a show of outright defiance. Why the fuck hadn’t I learned by now? No man wanted his home or belongings disrespected, and no man alive would let a show of defiance slide without repercussion. I knew that. I _knew_ that. Why the fuck hadn’t I been able to stay calm under his questioning? He had only asked me one damn question, one I had fielded and avoided cleanly for the past five years without hesitation. But here, in this kitchen, in front of these two men that question had lit a fire of anger in my gut that I had been unable to ignore. One that even now bubbled and boiled beneath the layer of icy terror that held me in its grip. How could I be so fucking angry and terrified at the same time? I felt as if I were spinning out of control.

     “Dean and I need to understand what you’ve been through so we know how to help you. I'm not trying to scare you, Becca. It seems like everything I’ve done so far is wrong. So we need to talk about this. And Dean needs to be here because I’m not thinking very clearly at the moment.” His arms were still crossed on his chest but I could see the muscles in his biceps jumping and his broad scholarly hands curling into fists. Fuck. He was so fucking pissed.

     I swallowed hard, scrambling to find words that would make this better, that would ease the eruption I knew was coming. “I’m sorry, Sam, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, honest—I shouldn’t have slammed the glass. I know that. It’s yours and everything in this house belongs to you. To you and Dean, I mean. I know that, and I should treat all of it with respect. I’m sorry.” The battle inside me between brewing anger and full blown terror stole the strength from my legs and I sank down into the familiar position, my legs folded neatly beneath me and making myself as small as possible. I couldn’t stop the constant stream of pleading that escaped me, even knowing that I was heaping punishment on myself, that silence was much safer. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry that I misbehaved and acted out. I accept whatever punishment you think is necessary. I’m sorry, Sam, you have to believe me--I’ll never do it again. I know I deserve punishment and I won’t say a word. I swear. Please, just whatever you think is fair, I’ll take it without a word.” _Just get it over with, damn it, just do it!_ Even my thoughts were chaotic, the words crossing my lips were pleading but in my head I was screaming at him, daring him to touch me, ready to fight back by any means necessary. I felt off balance in a way that went straight through my core, splintering me apart.

     A horrible sound escaped Sam and I flinched. Dean’s soft voice reached me and I heard the words but could barely process them over the chaos boiling and spinning out of control inside me, filling my ears with a dull roar.

     “Take a breath, Sammy. Keep it together a minute.”

     “She’s terrified of me, Dean, look at her – she’s begging! What the hell would take Becca, _my Becca_ , and turn her into this? What, Dean?!”

     Dean grunted, a rough gravelly sound. “This isn’t a what, it’s a who. Not our usual range of crazy but that bastard obviously fucked with her head. I almost wonder--” Dean cut himself off and Sam stiffened.

     “Damn it, just say what you’re thinking. I don’t care what it fucking is. I just need to be able to fix this!”

     “Okay, but I hope its way off base. Just hear me out. You remember that cult leader out in Montana last summer? The one we thought was using evil mojo but was just using straight up mental and emotional abuse on his followers? When that stuff goes bad, when the person in control is a psychotic bastard hung up on fucking with their followers’ mind, it can destroy people, Sam. Becca has that written all over her. Hell, just think about it. She stayed in the kitchen for _hours_ because she thought you told her to. She keeps jumping between mouthy and panicked because without that psycho controlling her, the entire structure of her life is gone right now. Even though it was a fucked up nightmare for her, she may not know how to function outside of it. That sick bastard messed her up. She’s not going to be able to just flip the switch back to normal, Sam.”

     “I don’t expect her to be normal, Dean, I just want her to be okay! How am I supposed to help her when I don’t have a fucking clue what she needs?”

     “You learn.”

     A long hesitation.

     A fist slammed into the counter. “Come on, Sam! Don't doubt yourself now. She needs _you_. You know who Becca really is. You’ll know how to put her back together because you _know_ her.”

     “But what the hell do I _do_?!”

     “Structure.” Dean said firmly. “The biggest thing she needs right now is structure. She’s used to being controlled constantly and it’s going to take her a bit to adjust. She’s going to need rules that will help her learn to function. She’s spinning out of control, Sam. She needs you to step into that role.”

     “No way! No fucking way, Dean!” Sam’s horror slapped me across the face and a dull flush raced across my icy skin. Terror still had me by the throat and I could do little more than watch their animated discussion as panicked thoughts raced around my mind, pinging off the edges of my psyche like shards of glass. They were right, fuck they were so right. Jack—his obsession with control had only grown as the years passed.

     “Damn it, I’m not saying you have to go out and learn mind control, Sam! Calm the fuck down. But she’s going to need _somebody_ to show her healthy ways to process through her day. I’ll help as much as I can, but she already responds to you. All you have to do is say her name and she stops in her tracks. She’ll be able to get over him with the right help. But she’s going to need some serious help, Sammy.”

     “ _Fuck!_ ” Sam’s explosive burst busted through the chaos in my mind and my gaze jerked toward him, everything inside me coming to a halt. Our eyes met and he stared at me, a brokenness in his gaze that I immediately identified with. That was how I felt inside. Broken. But not from Jack’s death. I had been broken long before that by my husband’s words and actions. The Becca that Sam saw when he looked at me didn’t exist anymore and I was so tired of fighting to hide it. I let him see inside me, see through my pleading and anger and protective shields, see straight to my battered soul. Fuck but I just needed him to punish me and get it out of the way. Not knowing what he was going to do was tearing me apart inside. I never thought I would see Sam, my Sam, angry with me yet instinctively I kept doing things that I _knew_ would make him upset. Pushing him, trying to find the boundaries, pressing him to see what he would do. But he kept pulling back. Kept pushing down that temper, only showing me kindness when I knew every kindness came with strings. I just kept waiting for those invisible strings to be pulled, and the taut apprehension was shredding my insides.

    Brokenly, I forced myself to form more words, to try and fix all the anger I felt swirling around the room. “Please, Sam. I can handle it. Whatever you think is fair, I can handle. I know I messed up. I acted out and disrespected you and your things. I’m _sorry_.” Fuck but I hated myself. Again and again I had messed things up. My entire marriage had been nothing but a long parade of mistakes and missteps. I had never gotten it right. And here I was, free of Jack and his expectations and still fucking everything up.

     The room was silent, my plea hanging heavy on the air.

     “Becca.” Dean’s voice was rough and it sounded as if he had aged decades in the past ten minutes. “I’m going to help Sam take care of you but we need to talk through some things, so we can understand where you’re coming from. Becca?”

     Reluctantly I dragged my gaze to Dean. His green eyes were watchful, a wealth of knowledge warning me that he was seeing a hell of a lot more than he was telling Sam.

     Dean thankfully kept his hands to himself as his words reached out to me. “What were the rules at home? What were Jack’s rules for you?”

     My terror spiked high and hard, stealing words from me. Was this a trick?

     Dean let out a hard breath. “There’s not a right or wrong answer, Becca. We’re just trying to understand.”

     My throat felt full of jagged glass as I forced a swallow. “I … I don’t want that again. Please, don’t make me.” My gaze darted unwillingly up to Sam’s great height to find him glowering deeply.

     “What were the rules, Beck?”

     I hesitated, struggling to do what he was asking of me. “It wasn’t like that, exactly… He … wasn’t abusive. He never hit me.”

     Dean’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not what we asked.”

     I fell silent, unable to chart the vast waters of his question.

     “Let me ask this.” Dean backtracked. “Was he angry a lot?”

     I gave a minute shrug. “I made a lot of mistakes, so yes.”

     A strangled growl from Sam.

     Dean shot him a warning glance. “You were asking Sam to punish you. What do you think is a fair punishment for you losing your temper this morning?”

     Sam straightened, looming even taller. “Dean, what the fuck—”

     Dean threw up a restraining hand, his green gaze staying steady on me. “What do you think is fair, Becca? What would Jack have done?”

     My heart started pounding in my chest and a heated flush started racing up my neck. Memories, nightmares, fears and shadows filled my mind and swirled sickeningly, throwing up idea after idea of what Jack would consider a suitable punishment. Nausea filled my belly and I was shocked to feel searing tears well in my eyes and spill out onto my flushed cheeks. “I … please, no.” I choked out.

     “Becca, it’s important. What do _you_ think is fair?” Dean pressed, leaning closer until I was afraid that he would touch me. That his big rough hands would invade my space and touch me without my consent. Dean didn't like me, he never had. The brief hiatus of snarled interactions between us since Sam had brought me back was nothing but a mirage, and I feared his nearness.

     “Dean, I don’t think—” Sam protested, taking a step toward us.

     “Stay right where you are,” Dean snapped at his brother and Sam halted. “Becca, answer the damn question,” he demanded.

     Fuck. His voice was raised. Dean was beyond pissed now, too. “I—I don’t—”

     “Becca…” Dean pressed in a low tone.

     I slammed my eyes closed, but the heated tears still raced down my cheeks. “Food,” I whispered.

     “What? I can’t hear you,” Dean said harshly.

     “I … I lost my temper over breakfast and I—spilled my juice on the table. I think it’s f-fair that I don’t get any more food.” My gaze jumped to Sam and saw stark horror in his gaze and I scrambled to adjust my statement to his satisfaction. “T-three days? No food or water for three days?” Sam’s expression didn’t change and I dropped my gaze back to Dean, scrambling to find an answer that would placate them both. “And I slammed my glass on the table. I disrespected your things. I don’t deserve to sleep in the room that you gave me. Do you have a basement? Or an empty closet? It doesn’t have to be empty. I can make room. I don’t take up very much space, I swear. Please, Sam.” I scooted on my knees toward him. “Please, just let me make it up to you. I know I said I want to leave, but I don’t. I—I know that I messed things up already and that you’re both angry with me but please—just let me fix it. If three days isn’t enough, I can do more – four? Or five? I haven’t gone more than five but I can try, Sam, I swear I can try.” The tears were coming down fast and more furiously than I thought possible. Disgust welled inside me for the mess I was making and I made a valiant effort to push the tears back down. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me, Sam. Anything. Just tell me what you want. _Just tell me what to do._ ”

     Dean suddenly leapt to his feet and flung his arms around Sam. For a split moment I thought it was an embrace but the raging snarls escaping Sam quickly made me realize that Dean was restraining him, and Sam was fighting to get free.

 _“_ Let me go, damn it! Let me fucking free, Dean!” Sam snarled, his face flushed and his eyes darkened with a fury so great that I froze, not even a breath escaping me. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch – I’ll raise him up and tear him apart with my bare hands!”

     “He’s already dead, Sam, let him be!” Dean hollered, struggling to keep Sam who topped Dean’s six-foot height by a handful of inches from bursting through the arm lock. “We’ll burn him, I swear. That bastard’s never coming back, but he’s _gone_ , Sam. It’s over.” With one final shove, Dean knocked Sam back on his ass and Sam stared at up him blindly.

     “Fuck off, Dean, I’m going after him,” Sam warned viciously.

     “Like hell you will. She needs you here, now, Sam. She’s asking you for direction. You _have_ to give her structure or you’re going to lose her, Sammy. Look at her. _Look at her right now_!” Dean demanded.

     Sam’s hazel gaze snapped to mine and a stuttered breath escaped me. I could physically see the battle as Sam wrestled with himself, fought to get his anger under control. He managed it but just barely. The tension in the room was stifling. Sam took one deep, chest expanding breath and let it out slowly. His gaze settled a little. “I need some air. I need… to figure this out.”

     “But Sam—” Dean protested but Sam was already halfway out the other doorway.

     He paused for a brief moment and threw another look at me over his shoulder. “Becca, I …” His eyes shuttered and his expression neutralized. “I’m sorry.” With that, he fled down the hallway and a moment later we heard the grinding slam of the front door of the bunker.

     Dean stared after him for a long minute before turning to me hesitantly. “Becca, please get off the floor.”

     Shakily I got to my feet.

     “Come here.”

     My heartbeat sped up as I slowly walked toward him but stopped just out of reach.

     “There are a few things we need to get straight.” Dean paused and gestured for me to take a seat but I just stared at him blindly, trying to figure out if Dean was going to step in for Sam on handling the consequences of my temper. “We’re going to help you figure things out. I don’t know if Sam can be … what you need him to be, but both of us are going to do whatever we can to help you heal. Sam—” He paused, running his hands through his short hair. “He’ll be back when he’s ready. But there are two ground rules I want to make clear. You’ll never sleep anywhere but in a bed in this house. And you will _never_ go without food. All right?”

     “But what if I—” I nearly bit through my tongue when the words started to escape before I could stop them.

     Dean held up a hand and I immediately fell silent. “There are no punishments if you lose your temper. Me and Sammy lose our tempers all the time. With our job you’d go crazy if you didn’t get angry now and again. You have free run of this house and if you need anything, you have permission to get it for yourself. Shower, food, a blanket … anything. You’re welcome to it.”

     Confusion swamped me, pouring boldly into the swarm of anger and fear inside. He wasn’t making any sense. Those weren’t rules. If anything, they stripped me of the few things I knew to be solid truths: no man wanted to be disrespected, I never had a good reason to lose my temper, and bad behavior _always_ resulted in punishment. Without them I felt even more adrift than before.

     “I need to go find Sam, make sure he’s okay.” Dean said finally, rubbing a rough hand along the back of his neck. “I know that everything’s fubar right now, but we’ll get it all sorted. When Sam gets back, we’ll figure this out together.” He made it through the doorway before turning back with a hard line to his brow. “One more thing. Whatever you do, don’t leave this bunker.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wrestled with this chapter for the past three days and rewritten vast majorities of it several times. I would love to hear your feedback (even if you hate the direction this has taken, that will help me know to reign it in). I was truly not anticipating Becca being quite so broken but despite the many rewrites, she's obstinately refusing to cope any better. As always, thank you so very much for reading and I would love to hear your thoughts!


	6. Make It Stop

     Numbness gradually set in as I took care of my mess in the kitchen. Once that was done, I realized that my car was still at my burned house and I had no way to leave even if I wanted to. I decided to do everything I could to lessen Sam’s regret for bringing me into his home. He obviously was beginning to realize that I fucked up everything I touched and my offers to pay the consequences had only made him angrier. But I had to do _something_. I couldn’t just mosey along like everything was fine and I hadn’t disrespected him in the worst way. So I spent the first hour cleaning the whole kitchen top to bottom, the second hour cleaning my room just in case Sam changed his mind and kicked me out of it, and was onto aimlessly wandering the bunker looking for ways to be useful as the minutes stretched into more hours and the boys still didn’t return. Surprisingly, the boys ran a pretty tidy ship and I ended up in the main area in a low arm chair tucked into a corner surrounded by overflowing bookshelves. I perched on the edge of the chair, repeating Dean’s words over and over to myself to try and stem the nervousness of potentially doing something I wasn’t supposed to. _If you need anything-- shower, food, a blanket … you’re welcome to it._ I stared at the overfilled bookshelves blindly for nearly a half hour before gathering the nerve to pull the oldest looking book off the shelf and carefully place it on my legs. It was large enough it took up my lap entirely and its dusty cover said something in Latin. Nervousness made my stomach knot as I curiously opened it up and found each page was filled with lines and lines of neat Latin script, all of which was meaningless to me. But each page was hand illustrated with the most beautiful depictions of supernatural creatures. Spellbound, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the beautiful drawings as I turned page after page. I reached the end and greedily switched it for the next book on the shelf, curious if all the books were as unique.

     A shrill ringing blasted through the room and I startled, hastily putting the book back on the shelf. I searched around until I figured out the piercing sound was coming from a pastel rotary phone on one of the side tables. I stared at it, anxiously letting it ring. Should I pick it up? It wasn’t my home, but there wasn’t anyone else here. But we were in a _bunker_ , it seemed strange that they had a working landline. I decided to let it keep ringing and prayed that they had some sort of answering machine and wouldn’t miss an important message. After the eighth ring, a static filled click sounded and some sort of intercom system turned on throughout the entire bunker.

_"Damn it, Becca, answer the fucking phone!”_

     Dean.

     I scrambled to pick it up. “Dean? I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

     “Only two people in the world have the number for that phone--me and Sam. If it rings you answer it, understand?” He barked out, huffing for breath and clearly in the middle of something.

     “I will—”

     “I need you to do something for me. I finally found Sam and we ran into a little … trouble. We’re headed back now but I need you to gather the first aid kit and some towels from the bathroom. There’s a basin under the sink and I need you to fill it with warm water – no soap, you understand me?”

     “Okay.” I nodded briskly, already mentally anticipating what else they may need.

     “We’re about ten minutes out. Can you have all that ready and meet me at the door? Sam’s knocked out cold and I could use the help getting him down the steps.”

     “I’ll be ready.” The phone clicked in my ear and I set it down quickly, barely making sure it landed in the cradle before darting across the room and down one of the long hallways. I swung open the door to the bathroom and swiftly loaded up all the items he had requested as well as some antiseptic and a small flashlight. Knocked out meant he might have a concussion. The antiseptic would help clean the area where he had gotten hit and the flashlight would help us check his pupils. Assuming he wasn’t black out drunk or something. I winced at the thought, shying away from the possibility that I had driven Sam from his home and pushed him to drink himself into a stupor. It was barely after eight in the morning, damn it. Surely he hadn’t—

     My thoughts ran wild as I rapidly followed the tasks Dean had given me. The other half of my brain systemically walked me through putting the kit, towels, and basin at the end of the table nearest the front door and then hustling into the kitchen to grab two bottles of water and some peppermints to help raise his blood sugar if needed. I was ready and waiting with the front door flung wide open when Dean’s black ’67 Impala skidded to a stop. Dean’s jaw was set but he looked calm. He gave me a brisk nod before opening the back door of the car and dragging Sam out by the shoulders. With a grunt, Dean dug his shoulder into Sam’s gut and heaved him up into a fireman’s carry. He shoved the car door shut behind him and narrowly missed knocking Sam’s swinging head on the car frame. I pushed the front door open as wide as it would go and Dean steadily worked toward me with Sam hanging limply over his shoulder.

     “Everything’s ready on the table,” I said quietly, watching Sam for signs of blood or damage.

     Dean shifted Sam with a snort, flashing me a small grin. “Don’t look so worried. It’s just another day in paradise. He’ll be all right.”

     “Is he…?” I let the rest of my question fade out as I closed the door behind them and Dean narrowly missed knocking Sam’s head into the railing. Without a word I followed closely and used my hands as a buffer to protect Sam’s head as Dean stomped down the winding stairwell.

     “He’s fine. He jumped into a mess that got the best of him.” We reached the ground floor and Dean took a few heavy steps toward the table before bending, dropping Sam like a sack of potatoes in the nearest chair. Dean brushed off his hands and propped his hands on his hips, staring down at Sam with a considering frown.

     “…Is he bleeding?” I asked softly, hesitating to intrude on his thoughts.

     Dean flicked a glance at me with a negligent shrug and I noticed dirt was streaked on his forehead. “Probably. Nothing serious though.”

     With a questioning gesture I started toward the basin and towels and Dean waved me toward them. My thoughts swirled as I sorted out the supplies, rearranging them on the table and adding antiseptic to one of the towels absently. Dean didn’t seem all that concerned with the state Sam was in. If anything, he seemed impatient, his fingers tapping on his hips as he watched me. I finished prepping and hesitated, realizing I would have to invade Sam’s personal space to check him for injuries.

     “Just clean him up as best you can,” Dean directed distractedly. “I need to make a few phone calls. Come get me when he wakes up.”

     I nodded and he disappeared down the hallway. I stared at Sam’s head as it hung limply, chin almost touching his chest. Taking a deep breath, I gathered my nerve and tentatively cradled his jaw, lifting his face to inspect it for damage. His breath eased out over my fingers and I suddenly had the urge to run my thumb on the underside of his bottom lip. I had never been so close to him before, and had never been in a position that I could look my fill. His dark eyelashes rivaled Dean’s, and his long hair had the softest wave that tempted me to run my hands through the strands. My eyes traced over his hard jaw and sharp cheekbones as I focused on his steady breaths. He had dirt on his face too, and a cut that sliced through his eyebrow, dribbling blood down the side of his face. _That_ I knew what to do with. _That_ I knew how to fix. I swallowed hard and reluctantly slid my hand into his hair, gripping him on the nape of his neck to help support his head as I dabbed at the cut with the antiseptic soaked towel. I fought to ignore the silk of the strands wrapping around my fingers as I shuffled in a little closer for a better grip, a warm flush spinning through me at our proximity. Guiltily I checked over my shoulder to see if Dean was coming back, but the hallway was empty.

     “Beck?” Sam breathed my name, jerking my attention back to him and I froze, one hand buried in his hair and practically straddling one of his thighs. The warm flush quickly turned to scorching mortification. “I’m sorry, Sam—I just—you were knocked out, and Dean asked—”

     His broad hands came to rest on my hips and he steadied my nervous attempt to back away, slowly blinking the confusion from his gaze. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Are we back in the bunker?”

     Another blush raced into my cheeks as the individual heat of his fingers reached through my clothing, stealing my ability to breathe. “Yes, Dean brought you back.”

     His expression darkened. “Is Dean still here?”

     I nodded silently, taking in the depth of his hazel eyes as he frowned. I could see his thoughts chasing each other but he stayed quiet.

     Silence fell between us and I went back to cleaning up his face, trying to distract myself from the acute awareness of his hands on my hips. I bit my lip nervously, my confession tumbling out. “I looked at some of the books in the library -- just two and I made sure I put them back in the right spot.” I rushed to reassure him. “I didn’t bend the pages or anything, I was careful--”

     “Becca, take a breath. You’re fine.” He reached up and loosely circled my wrist, halting my jerky movements with a small wince. “You could go a little easier on cleaning me up, but you’re fine.”

     Flustered, I set the towel on the table behind him with a strained apology. “Sorry. Dean had to make some phone calls and he asked me to clean you up. I saw that cut on your face but wasn’t sure if you were hurt anywhere else. Are you? Do you need me to get you anything? The water is getting cold but I can warm it up for you. Do you have a concussion? Do you need a drink? Food? Anything?” Nervously I tried to tug out of his grasp but he kept me there, pulled in close to his body. We were almost the same height, even with him sitting in the chair and I had pressed in entirely too close while he was unconscious. Now we were sharing the same breaths and it was too much, he was too close, too… Sam. I swallowed hard and his gaze dropped to my throat as if I had made an audible sound.

     He blinked as if trying to gather his thoughts. “The only thing I need right now is to talk to you.”

     I tried to subtly separate from his grasp again but he just tugged me even closer. “Sam, please let me go,” I said softly, trying not to look directly into his hazel eyes.

     “I don’t want to.” He gently stroked my wrist. “I like having you close. Like last night. I enjoyed giving you a foot rub very much.”

     I stilled, letting that memory sooth the anxiety that was rising up inside me with every breath that we shared.

     “We’re good together, you and me,” he said softly. “We’ve been friends for a long time. It kills me to know that you were going through so much alone.” His hand left my hip and he brushed his thumb along my cheek, using the gentle touch to force my eyes to his. Sadness and so very much pain filled his gaze and it broke my heart. For the first time I wondered what _he_ had been through in the past five years. What stories I hadn’t heard yet, what heartaches he had weathered alone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay here and talk to you about everything. I needed some time to think, to process.” A heavy breath left him and he brushed a fingertip along my jawline absently. I fought the instinct to turn into the touch, to burrow into the comfort of his arms. It had been a long time since I had been touched. “Were you… Did Jack—” He rubbed his forehead and a small pinch of pain narrowed his eyes. “…Was it always like this?” He questioned softly. “Even from the very beginning?”

     I stiffened in his grasp, just the name enough to bring up my defensive shields. “Sam, I don’t want to talk about this.”

     “I know,” he soothed, brushing his thumb along my cheek again but this time it felt intrusive and patronizing, and I drew away from the touch. “I know you don’t but we need to. We need to figure out how to move forward, help you heal.”

     I gave up trying to be subtle and jerked free of his grasp at last, taking several steps away from him and sucking in air that was free of his breath. “I didn’t come to you for that, Sam. _You_ found _me_ at that fire. I never would’ve put that on you.”

     “Why the hell not?” He grunted in frustration, running both hands through his hair. “Why don’t you trust me? You know I could’ve handled Jack. Why didn’t you _come_ to me?!”

     My hands clenched. “Why do you keep asking me that?” I asked roughly. “You know I never could’ve left him—”

     “Why not?” Sam demanded, getting to his feet. “There’s plenty of room here. You have to know you could’ve always come to me. _Always_.”

     “I married him, Sam.” I finally turned to face him. The sight of him looming angrily sent a stutter through my heart but I couldn’t crumble again. I had to get this out. We couldn’t keep having this same conversation. Fear ballooned in my chest and despite my conviction I couldn’t help stumbling back a few steps, giving myself a safe distance from him _._ “ _I_ chose to marry him. _Me._ My mom used to tell me that the only reason marriages failed was because people didn’t want to deal with the consequences of their decisions. They wanted the warm fuzzy feeling, they wanted someone to come home to, but they didn’t want the responsibilities, the fights, the struggle to do what’s best for someone else with every decision you make. Everyone’s selfish at their core, she would tell me over and over. If I wanted a successful marriage and a good life it was up to _me_ to always put him first. If I was failing it was because I wasn’t trying hard enough. I didn’t get married intending to quit when things got hard, Sam.”

     “You weren’t _trying hard enough?_ ” He bellowed, sending me back even further from him. Fury eclipsed the color in his eyes and he loomed even larger. “Fucking hell, Becca! That bastard was abusing you!”

     “He wasn’t!” I cried, desperate to try and make him understand. “I keep telling you, it wasn’t abuse! He never left a mark on me!”

     “It _was_!” He negated, throwing his arms wide. “Physical abuse isn’t the only kind of abuse out there, Becca!”

     “I don’t understand what that means!” I yelled back, unable to keep the tears of frustration from overflowing. Fuck it all. I was yelling at him again. I was standing in the middle of the front foyer, yelling at Sam Winchester in his own fucking house. Why couldn’t I fucking _learn_?

     Sam blew out air like a bull ready to charge a matador, his pained gaze pinning me in place. A jarring silence fell and he just stared at me as if I were a stranger. He finally broke the silence, his tone soft but no less angry. “When was he a good husband to _you_?”

     “What?”

     He crossed the room in three long strides. “When was he a good husband to you? When did he put _you_ first?”

     “I don’t—”

     “When did he take care of you? Comfort you? Bring you things to make you smile? Did he wake you up with kisses or anger?” Sam’s gaze pierced through my feeble shields and destroyed them in a single moment. He saw me waver and went in for the kill, his anger falling away and his tone filling with softness and heat. “When you were together, did he make love to you? Did he look in your eyes and let you know that you were the single most important thing to him in the entire world? Did he _love_ you?” His voice roughened. “Did he love you like I always have, Becca? Because that’s what you deserve.”

     Oh, god. Oh fuck. “Damn you!” I exploded, the constant conflict between fear and anger suddenly shifting drastically. “Damn you to fucking hell, Sam!” I shoved him away with all my strength, shocked to hear the shrill shriek escape me. “How fucking dare you—you twisted son of a bitch!”

     “Becca, listen—”

     “No, _you_ listen!” I shoved him again, forcing him to fall back a step. My hands curled into fists and I slammed one into his broad chest, driving the air from his lungs. “I waited years, Sam – _years_ to hear you say that! I thought if I just waited long enough you’d fucking realize -- Damn you for saying it to me _now_!” I sucked in a tearing breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “You think you see a future here? Between us? Real life is hard, Sam. Relationships are _hard_. It’s not about romance or passion or _love_.” I spit the last out, hating the foul taste of it in my mouth. “Love is a fucking fairy tale. It’s pretend – just something that little girls dream about but adults know doesn’t exist. Real relationships are about decisions, and sacrifice, and hard work. They’re about giving the best parts of yourself to someone and hoping they give a damn enough to care. It’s about commitment. About waking up every day and deciding to stay come hell or high water even when every part of you is filled with dread. It’s about getting used to failure. It’s about never being enough but trying your damnedest anyway,” I gasped, desperate to suck in a breath deep enough to ease the ache in my chest. “It’s about adjusting to the emptiness inside and leaving behind the hope that something someday will come along to fill it.”

     “Like hell it is!” Sam roared, gripping my wrists tightly and pulling me close enough to avoid me pounding his chest again. “It’s about hope and kindness and seeing the best in someone—”

     “You ever been married, Sam?” I snarled, barely recognizing the sound of my voice. “Get your fucking head out of the clouds. Don’t you fucking dare say you love me because it’s nothing but a fantasy. Love means nothing. I spent my entire life believing in those things and Jack had a hell of a time showing me the difference between fantasy and reality. But I learned, Sam, oh how I learned. So don’t you fucking dare say that to me like it means something.”

     He stared at me, hands wrapped around my wrists, with my body restrained tightly against his. I felt like the explosive words had been dragged from deep within the recesses of my soul. Sam sucked in a deep, dragging breath. “It kills me to hear you say that, Beck. You always had love enough for everyone and a heart big enough to match. I said I love _you,_ Becca _._ That may not mean anything to you now but it means something to _me._ I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it. You think the closer I get to you the less I’ll feel that way?” He shook his head at me in disbelief. “All I see when I look at you is creativity and fire and light. _This_ Becca, the one here in my arms spitting fire and hot as hell is the one I’m in love with. The one I was afraid I would never see again.”

     I tried to yank out of his grasp. “I can’t—I can’t do this with you, Sam. I don’t have anything left to give you. Don’t you understand that?”

     “I don’t want anything _from_ you, Becca. I just want to take care of you. I want to see you happy. I want to see you be brave and confident and sassy again. I want to see you be _you_.”

     “I can’t _be_ that person, Sam! Why don’t you understand that?!” I cried desperately, the heat of anger and frustration cracking beneath his dogged determination, his certainty that I wasn’t broken, that I could be put back together again. “Damn you! I can’t – I _won’t_ go through that again! I can’t handle—I don’t know how to—fucking hell, Sam, I just want it to stop hurting!” Agonized tears rose to the surface and I choked, feeling like I was being torn apart from deep inside my soul. He released me immediately, only to wrap his arms around me and lift me into his grasp. He found my hideaway by the bookshelves and tucked us into the low armchair, laying me crossways in his lap. Shudders wracked my body as sob after sob was torn from me, pulled from a well of pain that felt unending. Broken words burst out of me and I struggled to breathe. “I can’t do this anymore, Sam—I can’t. I just—I want it to stop hurting. No matter what I do, it still fucking _hurts._ I don’t want to feel anything, Sammy…please make it stop. I have nothing left, Sam. I can’t love you…I have nothing _left_ \--”

     Sam murmured words I couldn’t decipher, soft comforting nonsense as his broad hand stroked through my hair soothingly, over and over and over again. The sobs and broken words finally petered to an end as exhaustion overtook me. Time ceased to have meaning as we sat there wrapped up in each other. He shifted and I looked up at him blearily. My breath caught at the sight of tears in his hazel eyes and signs that they had been falling for some time. A small sigh escaped as my heart broke and he slowly bent, pressing a soft, devastating kiss on my lips. It was gentle, and sweet and _giving_ , as if he were pouring light back into my soul. I shattered beneath it.

     He pulled back, a mere breath between us. “Let me love you, Beck. Please. I’m not asking for anything, I don’t need anything _from_ you. Just let me take care of you. Let me make the pain go away. It _will_ go away, Beck, I swear it. Let me make you smile. Let me hold you just like this. I love you. I want you to know that those words _do_ mean something.” He pressed his eyes closed, leaning his forehead against mine. “I knew from the moment Dean told me what was going on what I wanted. I knew I wouldn’t be able to support you as a friend, I wouldn’t be strong enough to let you go again. It almost killed me the first time. I tried to forget about you, tried to let you live your own life, away from me, away from the darkness that surrounds hunting. But damn it, Becca, to find out that all I did was leave you unprotected -- that you were hurting that much and I was barely a part of your life ... I never reached out to make sure you were happy, that you were okay.” He opened his eyes and let me see his heart. The desolation and agony there destroyed me. “God, I’m so sorry. I can never give you back what he took from you. But I can help you heal. I can be here, beside you, help you survive the fallout of what he’s done. There is light and goodness in this world, Beck, and I can help you find it. Please, let me love you.”

     “I don’t know how,” I cried softly, my voice ragged from the tears. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough—”

     He gathered me even closer. “Let me be strong enough for the both of us. Trust me to be there for you this time. Trust that I know how to take care of you. I’ve got you, Beck, and this time I’m not letting go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combustible peeps, I'm coming for you next. But I might need a good cry and a Sammy of my own after finishing this chapter. Dean's got my heart but damn. Sam may have gotten me on this one.


	7. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a bit more of Becca and Sam's story. I struggled for so long with this one because I couldn't quite get it to communicate that Becca's skewed perspective of the world was why she was seeing Sam as constantly angry. Special thanks to cherrishish for helping me get past my writer's block! And a heart full of gratitude to CaseyCakes for inspiring me last night when I was ready to give up on this one! Hope this chapter clears up Sam's perspective on this whole thing (if not and you have any suggestions for how I can continue to improve it, feel free to leave me a comment!) As always, thank you for sticking with me and for reading!

(Sam’s POV)

     I had ten minutes of her lying soft in my arms before she stirred. That explosive torrent of her pain had nearly flattened me, the agony in her eyes warning that it was merely the tip of the iceberg of what she was going through. But she felt hollowed out in my arms now, as though her unfiltered anger and subsequent pain had drained the tension that lived in her bones. Yet even through the tears and broken words, her sobs had been almost silent, as if her pain was far too deep for sound. I had taken advantage and I knew it. I used the distraction of her anger and pain to get close to her, to break that invisible barrier she threw up constantly warning that any physical touch was unwelcome. But I didn’t have it in me to regret the underhanded tactic. I finally had her in my arms, close enough I could feel her soft breaths against my neck. I had her tucked cross-wise on my lap, legs hanging off one side of the chair and my arm bracing along her spine, my hand resting just at the edge of her hip. I had pulled her as close as possible, trying desperately to communicate that she was safe, that my arms were a haven whenever she might need me. Her head was on my shoulder, its weight barely enough to register. Her silent sobs had finally eased off and I was running my fingers through her hair in long, slow, even strokes.

     My thoughts tumbled chaotically as we sat there in the silence and tension was beginning to come back into her muscles. Her fear was almost a tangible thing in the room and I wanted nothing more than to slay the demons that haunted her, to banish that ever present darkness from her eyes. Her fear, god, how it gutted me. I fought to keep my breathing steady and my strokes in her hair gentle to hide how deeply her terror affected me. How was it possible to simply look at someone and feel this level of agony for them? Dean and I, hell, I thought we had been through just about everything. I thought there was nothing left to haunt my dreams besides losing each other. If there was a single thought that persistently struck terror into my chest it was the thought of having to face a long life without my brother, each day stretching empty and silent without his stupid jokes and bad taste in music, his steady take charge attitude beside me every step of the way. But now … I didn’t have the words to describe what Becca’s pain did to me. I was hurt that she hadn’t come to me, hadn’t given me a chance to fix this for her a long time ago. But I was also ashamed of myself for not keeping a better eye on her. She shouldn’t have to come to me. I should’ve known there was a problem when she stopped answering my texts. But the overriding emotion I felt was frustration. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix this. That fucker was already dead. Sure, Dean and I could go and burn the bones. No problem. I could give Becca a place to stay, easy. We had plenty of room. I could give her money, a car, a thousand other things that would make life easier. But that didn’t fix any of this. It was like putting an ace bandage on a gunshot wound. Would it help with the bleeding? Maybe. Would it help keep you on your feet? For a bit. But the gunshot wound was still there. How the fuck was I supposed to fix this?

     Every time she looked at me, it was as if every word out of my mouth was me screaming at the top of my lungs. She ran from me as if my frustration was a living breathing thing that was snapping at her heels. As if I were watching her every move and just waiting for her to do something wrong. That was the farthest thing from the truth. Every moment I watched her I was trying to find ways to help her, to make her more comfortable, to ease the agony I saw in her eyes. If I was frustrated, it was with myself for not getting her out of that fucking nightmare years ago. If my words came out harsh, it was because I was struggling just to communicate around the ache in my chest. I wanted my Becca back. I wanted her whole, wanted her eyes shining bright with laughter, and wanted to see her smiling up at me teasingly. But if there was one thing I had learned in the entire cluster fuck that happened this afternoon, it was that Dean was right. What she needed the most right now was structure.

     “Sam?”

     She shifted on my lap and my hand fell still in her hair as I matched her movements, keeping her steady on my legs. Not that there was much chance of her falling off—she had lost forty pounds, easily, and my gangly legs left her plenty of room to sit. She had never been heavy, but now all of her curves were hollowed out and I could feel the sharp jut of her hip bone against me. No wonder, what with that fucking bastard starving her. She shifted again and I felt the change in her posture, the instinctive stiffness of prey sensing a predator. She moved to sit up, to pull away from me. I fought the instinct to pull her back, to force her to stay within the protection of my hold. I wasn’t a predator, damn it. I wasn’t going to hurt her. “Right here, Beck.”

     “I was supposed to clean you up. For Dean. I … forgot.” Her words were awkward, stilted, and I could hear those shields falling into place, hear her warning sirens of _too close, too close – back off_.

     Instead of following my instincts, I left my touch light, simply letting the strands of her hair continue to slide through my fingers. “It’s fine, Becca. He won’t mind.”

     Her posture went from stiff to completely rigid, every muscle straining against my touch. “Please. I’m supposed to be cleaning you up.”

     I filed that away, the fact she used obedience to avoid speaking for herself. She was uncomfortable, she clearly wanted nothing more than to be far away from me, to be out of my hold as soon as possible. I could sense the fear growing in her. I fought with myself, wanting to let her up, wanting to do anything in my power to remove this horrible tension and fear from her. But my research this afternoon had taught me that was the worst thing I could do. Geez, psychology was so not my thing. I felt like the blind leading the blind. “… I like you right where you are, Becks. Just relax with me a minute.”

     “But—”

     I kept my fingers running in that steady pattern through the strands of her tangled brown hair, careful not to snag, careful to communicate only comfort through my touch. “I did some research and learned some things today. Things that might help us figure this out.”

     She stilled.

     I decided to read that as a good sign. “Dean … had the right idea, earlier. Let’s start with some ground rules.”

     “Dean already gave me some ground rules.” Her tone was just on the soft side of disgruntled.

     “Oh?” That surprised me. Dean hadn’t said much when he pulled me out of that place. Just threatened to knock some sense into me before I put myself in danger. As if we didn’t run straight at danger every single day of our lives. He just didn’t like that I had done it without him. Control freak. “What were they?”

     “I have to sleep in a bed. I’m not allowed to go without food. I’m not allowed to leave the bunker.”

     Surprisingly, Dean had done all right. Those were definitely a good place to start. But Becca’s tone warned me that her perspective on them might be a bit different. “How do you feel about them?”

     She pulled away from my shoulder, dislodging my hand in her hair. It was so odd to look at her. She was completely expressionless right now but somehow that blank stare screamed her thoughts at me. She searched my features as if trying to find the answer to my question. Damn it, she _was_. She was trying to tell me what I wanted to hear.

     “Becca, how do you feel about them?” I repeated calmly and she flinched as if I had snapped in frustration.

     “I—I think they’re fine. If those are the rules, then those are the rules.”

     Damn but this was going to be a long process. “How. Do. You. Feel. About. Them?” My tone was calm. Even. I was even a little proud of how relaxed I sounded. But she jerked away from me as if I had shouted. What exactly did she hear when I spoke?

     “I think they’re confusing,” she finally muttered.

      Success! “Why?”

     She peered up at me as if the answers were all in my gaze. “They’re … different.”

     “Than Jack’s?” Fuck but I hated even the taste of his name in my mouth.

     She flinched again but nodded.

     “You said you didn’t want his rules. You asked that we don’t use them.” Hell, but every single word she had spoken since I found her yesterday was seared into my brain like a brand. Every flinch, every jolt, every fear filled gaze that begged me not to hurt her. She kept saying that he wasn’t physically abusive but I had my doubts. She had even used the phrase ‘he never left a mark on me’ that raised a big old red flag. Just because it didn’t leave a lasting mark didn’t mean that it wasn’t painful. Give me a regular monster any day of the week. Humans were the ones that could be sick fucks.

     “Yeah, but … Dean’s don’t make sense.”

     A strange sense of excitement almost rose up inside me. If I could just keep her talking, if she could just explain what she was thinking … If I could just unlock whatever bullshit that fucker had drilled into her head, then that would give me a clear path backward. Or forward. Or even just basic guidelines for what reaction to expect from her. Hell, knowing I had absolutely zero idea what we were navigating through was terrifying. But this was Becca. I could do this for Becca. “ _Why_ don’t they make sense?”

     She just stared at me, a thousand thoughts whirling in the confusion in her eyes but all of it was locked away from me.

     I rephrased, unwilling to lose the small link of communication we had going. “Stay here where it’s safe. Eat food so you aren’t hungry. And sleep in a bed where it’s comfortable. What about those things is confusing you?”

      Her face scrunched, creating deep crow’s feet in the skin around her eyes as she answered haltingly. “Those things aren’t necessities. Why would he choose those? They’re privileges. They are –” She caught herself. “They _used to be_ the first things I would lose. Like I tried to explain in the kitchen, I know I broke the rules. I know I lost my temper.” She finally met my gaze full on. “I want to make it right, Sam. I understand that this is your home. I don’t belong here. I disrespected you. I know I messed up. And because I messed up there are consequences. There have to be consequences, Sam.” She eyed me fiercely. "Without consequences there's no ... order. No right or wrong. Do you understand? There are always consequences and expectations. That's the way the world works. I just am trying to understand what yours are, what Dean's are. Just tell me, Sam—all I want is to understand your expectations!"

     Bingo. The pieces fell into place inside me and all the research I had done today and all the things I had seen this afternoon suddenly made sense. That's what Dean meant by structure. That's why Becca was spinning out of control. That's why she kept staring at me as if I had broken apart her very foundation. For her, there was no foundation. The rules she had learned from that rat bastard didn't apply here, and this morning must've sent her in a tailspin. That tailspin resulted in the fracture I had witnessed, the utter unraveling she went through when I told her how I feel, how I've always felt.

     This I could work with. This gave me a clear path forward.

  

(Becca’s POV)

     The strangest expression crossed Sam’s face at my outburst. Calm. A preoccupied sort of calm that warned that his thoughts were moving at a mile a minute. He licked his lips, shifting me on his lap as his gaze met mine. Their hazel intensity had me leaning back before I even realized I was doing it.

     “Beck, I’ll start working on communicating my expectations better. Would that help?”

     Hell, yes. I nodded.

     “Ok. Great. I can do that. Would it help you to have something to do? Something to fill your time?”

     “Just tell me what won’t piss you off,” I realized my hands were curling into fists. “I can cook, clean—do the laundry, set your clothes out for tomorrow – I was a _wife_ , Sam. I can do it all. Just tell me what won’t piss you both off and I’m happy to do it. I want to help. I _need_ to help you both. I’m not trying to be a burden—seriously, anything you need help with, just tell me--”

     He tipped his head back and laughter poured forth, the sound easing the ragged edges of emotion between us. I didn’t understand what was funny, but I didn’t care. I watched the dimples appear in his cheeks and when he finally straightened back up, his hazel eyes were bright with hope. “Right there. The answer has been right there this whole time and I’ve just been – Listen, Beck. I have an idea. If you hate it, just tell me and we can figure something else out. Okay?”

     I nodded shortly. What difference did it make if I enjoyed it? If it needed doing, I would do it. It was that simple.

     His smile deepened and he brushed a soft finger along my cheek in anticipation. “How do you feel about research?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear your thoughts! I am a glutton for feedback, even if you hated it. I am always wanting to grow as a story teller and your thoughts are the key to my growth! Thank you so very much for reading!


	8. Baby Steps

     I had everything timed perfectly. I was putting the last dish on the table when the bunker door opened up and they both stepped through. I flashed a smile at them, barely taking in their surprise before scurrying back into the kitchen, my heart racing with nerves.

     “Beck?” Sam called, his voice faint in the hallway. He reached the doorway and I heard the thud of his duffle hitting the ground.

     “Everything’s ready,” I said brightly, trying to bury the shiver of tension that raced through my body. I shifted my stance at the counter, my hands busy with the dishes but twisting so that Sam wasn’t at my back, so I could read his body language from the corner of my eye.

     “Becca, you made all that?” A note of awe curled through Sam’s voice and I absorbed it, swallowing it whole and stuffing it down deep. “There’s a three course meal out there!”

     “The old cookbook I found called for wine pairings, too, but I didn’t think you’d want that.” Fear suddenly buzzed through my veins and my gaze shot to his. “Unless you do? I found some, in one of the warehousing rooms. I can go get it. I’m sorry. I should’ve grabbed it anyway, just to be safe. I shouldn’t have assumed. I didn’t mean to sound judgy.” I snatched the hand towel off the counter and clenched it in my fists, dragging it roughly over my hands and striding toward the side hallway.

     “Becca, wait—”

     “No, Sam, you’re right. I’m sorry. Just let me go grab it. Dinner’s all ready, just go and sit down. I’m sure that sounds good after that long drive.” I sent him an overbright smile and sped up my steps.

     “Becca. _Stop_.”

     The sharpness in his tone jerked me to a halt and the towel fell from my suddenly trembling fingers. My eyes darted back to his, trying to anticipate his movements.

     He didn’t move, though, just stood still in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space and the top of his head brushing the framing as his hazel eyes watched me intently. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and I noticed the grime in the lines of his face, the dirt streaking his clothing and his hands. Damn it, he shouldn’t be delayed because of my mistake. I should’ve just grabbed the damn wine. Then everything would be perfect and he would be in there sitting down to a hot dinner. A few endless moments passed before he finally cleared his throat. “You’re right.”

     My gaze snapped back to his.

     “We aren’t wine people.” His mouth crooked up in the corner, the dimple in his cheek flashing briefly. “That’s too high class for a couple hunters. That’s why all that wine is in that warehousing room. Dean won’t touch it unless he’s desperate. Says it’s water masquerading as alcohol.” His mouth evened back out and the intensity of his eyes increased. “Why did you make us dinner?”

     The anxiety bloomed in my chest. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I instantly regretted the words as soon as they had escaped. Geez, that had sounded combative. I could see that he was exhausted and I wished he would stop talking to me and just go eat something. He and Dean had been hunting for the past six days, the majority of which I had spent researching for them even though barely a handful of calls had passed between us. It had been rough, a trail of bodies that had eventually led to a Shtriga. Sam and Dean’s exhaustion had grown deeper with every body that had dropped and my relief was immense when Sam called to say they were on their way home.

     Sam swallowed and breathed in deeply. The air was filled with the scents of yeast and cinnamon, the roasted chicken adding a mouthwatering aroma as well. “Beck, everything smells amazing. Yes, we’re hungry and I’m sure everything will be delicious. But you were working non-stop for the past six days. You should sleep the next few days solid. You earned it.”

     I crouched, picking up the towel and using the moment to gather my composure. The expression I lifted to him was serene. “I’m fine. I know for a fact I got more sleep this week than both of you, probably even put together. I wanted to—to show you I can help around here. It’s not a big deal, Sam. Sit. Eat. The food is hot. No reason for it to go to waste.”

     Dean appeared in the doorway, elbowing Sam out of the way with a heaping plate in one hand and a fork in the other, his mouth full and eyes bright. “Becca!” He garbled. “Did you make all that food? Well done!”

     I let the praise sink into me, and tucked it quickly down deep. “Did you have everything you need? I can get you another beer? I wasn’t sure which kind was yours and which was Sam’s—” 

     Dean waved me down, his fork full of mashed potatoes. “Nah, this is great. We never come home to hot meals.” He grinned at me and shoveled another bite into his mouth before the other was quite finished. “You were a big help on the hunt, Becca. And if you keep cooking like this, we’ll never let you leave.” He winked at me and sauntered back out, happy food noises escaping him.

     A small smile surfaced even as my brain was cataloguing everything he had had on his plate. Not a green bean man, then. There had been a fully stocked pantry that I had guessed was Sam’s doing but if Dean was a foodie, then maybe it was a bit of them both. But Dean had completely ignored the green beans, salad, and cranberry dressing.  He had loaded up on the mashed potatoes, cinnamon muffins, and chicken. If he—

     Sam’s voice cut into my thoughts. “You don’t have to cook for us, Beck. I’m glad you’re here just because you’re _here_. You don’t even have to do research if you don’t want—”

     “No, please.” I was quick to interrupt. “I like it. I like the research. I like the lore.” I loved the _books_. The smell and the feel of them. The fact that they contained so many details about the great supernatural realm was a bonus. And the fact I enjoyed gathering the facts and learning to sift through the rest was even better.

     Sam held out a hand soothingly. “Fine, okay. That’s good. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to earn your keep, okay? I would be perfectly content if you just sat around watching Dr. Sexy and eating bon-bons all day.” He suddenly flashed a grin at me as if the thought amused him.

     I snorted. Right. Like the Winchesters, the two mother fucking _Winchesters_ would be okay with me being a free-loader. I couldn’t imagine that even a little. Research while they were hunting I could handle. And now that I knew Dean was a foodie, I knew another way I could help out around here. I just wished that Sam would eat something. _Anything._ I didn’t know what he liked and anxiety was creeping up the back of my neck the longer we stood there. I had tried my best. I had tried to make a little of everything. Surely there was _something_ that looked appetizing to him. But no, he had come straight into the kitchen, had bypassed the bowls and platters of food entirely to come and tell me that I shouldn’t even be cooking. Had I read it wrong? Was I missing his signals?

     “What’s wrong, Beck?” Sam asked softly.

     “Nothing,” I flashed a smile and shifted on my feet.

     He took a step into the kitchen, a step farther from the food. “Becca? I can see your brain going a thousand miles a minute. What are you thinking?”

     The towel started getting bunched in my fingers again. “…I just … is there _anything_ that looked good to you? If there’s something else that sounds good, I can get started on it—”

     Shock crossed his features. “You’re worried I don’t want to eat?”

     I lifted a shoulder, an embarrassed flush filling my cheeks. I was worrying too much about it. I was making it too big of a deal.

     He threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing around the room and lifting some of the strain from his features. He ran his grimy hands through his hair and a true smile filled his face. “Becca, I can assure you, I am going to eat every bit of that feast you made in there. I’ll fight Dean tooth and nail to get my fair share.” He held his hand out to me, that smile inching higher. “But only if you join me.”

     I cast a nervous glance at the dishes. “I need to finish up in here, it’s a huge mess—”

     Sam shrugged that away. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll be there after you eat. _And_ after you rest. Come on. There’s some cinnamon muffins with my name on them and I’m not eating until you do.” He curled his fingers toward me, patiently waiting.    

     And once again I was not quite sure what to make of Sam Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! I know that Sam and Becca's journey is extremely slow coming along but it's getting there. This chapter is pretty short and sweet and a little glimpse into their story as time is beginning to pass for them. I have some more plans for the upcoming chapters and can't promise when it will be updated but there's more of their story to come.


	9. Fic Cancelled

Guys, thank you so much for reading this. Thank you for the kudos and the comments and the love. I have decided to not continue this fic. I have some ideas of ways that I could go back and rework it and take a different spin on it but if I do, it will have a fresh name and fresh look and a more consistent feel. This OC, Becca, is all over the place and I didn't really have a clear concise direction I wanted to take her, it just was relentlessly on my mind. She deserves to have her story told but to do it justice I really do need to rework the entire thing. I am so sorry to disappoint you and I hope that you all will check out my other stories I am currently working on here. I am also now on fanfiction.net and tumblr (same 'peddlergirl' handle) and feel free to check out those accounts too. Thank you ever so much for all of your wonderful encouraging and sweet words and I, again, am so sorry to disappoint. If/when this one comes back, it will be better than ever. :) Love you guys!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks so much for taking the time to read my little creation. I do not own Supernatural but sure do love borrowing the beloved characters and playing in their world for a short while. This particular fic is one that has been nagging at me all year as I worked on my other story, Combustible. It is not nearly as polished or as edited as most of what I post but Sam just kept whispering in my ear that this story needed told as well. The only way to get him to hush was to start working on it before I really had time to do it justice. I will be editing and updating as I go, so please bear with me for inconsistencies until I truly have time to focus on it and correct the details.


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